


Give me Gridiron, or give me death

by Deense



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:50:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deense/pseuds/Deense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things become tense in the Brownstone when Marcus Bell needs to stay for a few days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give me Gridiron, or give me death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [static_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/gifts).



“It’ll only be another day,” Joan said to Sherlock, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Though she wasn’t sure why she felt defensive, it wasn’t like she’d done anything wrong. Still, it’s Sherlock, and sometimes that meant trying to find another way to reason with him. Even if _trying_ was at the core of what she feels right now. “The exterminator said-“

“The exterminator said that it would be one more day, yes yes, You’ve told me a total of seven times now, the both of you.” 

Joan shakes her head, swallowing back a sigh that she knows will get her nowhere. It isn’t that unreasonable, Joan knows, Sherlock needs his space. This Brownstone is his home and tied in many ways to his continuing recovery. But it’s her home too, and Marcus is, before anything else, a friend.

“One more day, Sherlock. It won’t be so bad.”

“Fine,” he says, acquiescing. “One more day.”

He had, he knew, only himself to blame. He had offered in the first place, when Marcus mentioned his issues with pest control, and that any hotel he had found within his price range was booked up due to the impending holidays. Sherlock had offered because it was the sort of thing that a friend would do. He even liked to think it had been his own idea, though were he being more honest with himself he might admit Joan’s mention of the spare room they had, had prompted him. 

But two days had turned to four, and now five. Five days of an extra person in his space, something he tried to tell himself that he would normally not have minded so much. If it weren’t for the takeaway containers left on the table, or Marcus being in the shower exactly when Sherlock wanted to use it. These were all minor, petty things, and he told himself he would rise above them. 

He just might have, if it hadn’t been for the football.

“Does this one more day include another of these games of yours?” He knew the answer to the question before he had even asked it of Joan. He had memorised the Eastern Conference Schedule easily, and just as quickly found a bevy of bars in the local area that would screen any such games. Surely, there was no need to watch it _here_?

“Yes,” Joan said shortly. Her shoulders were back and her eyes narrowed, both signs that she would not argue any further. Often those signs didn’t stop Sherlock, but today he paused. “They’re playing the Panthers tonight and if-“

“If they have any hope, infinitesimal as it may be, of proceeding into the next round they need to win. Yes, I understand that. What I don’t begin to comprehend is how watching it here-“

Whatever else he might have said was cut off by a knock on the door. Sherlock hoped beyond reason that it was somehow connected to a case, but was fairly sure by the way Marcus bounded toward it that it was not. In this, as he was in many things today, he was disappointed. 

The scents that wafted down the hall indicated that indeed, the person on the door would not offer him an easy extrication from a maddening situation, and one that he was unable to fix. Perhaps if he offered to pay for the overpriced hotel for Marcus’ last night or two? He dismissed that as quickly as he thought of it, suspecting that it would put Joan offside. 

“Pizza and wings. I got a mix of hot and medium,” Marcus said as he walked back through, balancing a pile of boxes. Joan and Sherlock both knew that he couldn’t be unaware of the hissed discussion happening in the kitchen, but they were both grateful he chose to ignore it. “C’mon. Kick off is in five.”

He went back through, and Joan leveled Sherlock with a pleading look. “Are you coming?”

There were times when tactically it was best to admit to defeat, if only to entrench one’s self in a better position later. This, Sherlock felt, was one of those times. “Yes, fine. I will watch your gridiron, I’m sorry _football_ game with you. Even if I do not understand why you suddenly need to watch such an unbridled exhibition of masculinity disguised as sport.”

Joan simply smiled and hooked her arm through his. “I like football. I normally don’t watch it here because it’s not worth dealing with you while i try. It’s easier to just look up the scores. Besides, I was never that into it, but Marcus is.”

“Yes, and we all must change everything now that Marcus Bell is staying-“

“Sherlock,” she warned, and he knew, again, that his voicing his thoughts had put him into the category Joan had of ‘gone too far’. There were days he wondered why he bothered, but generally he understood it entirely. He bothered because she was important to him, and he felt a better person when she was about.

Even if he was a person about to be subjected to three hours of a mind-numbing game, sandwiched between so many advertisements that he would (he knew already) be forced to comment on the sport merely being a vehicle for corporate greed. 

“No, let us go,” he said, and allowed himself to be led into the lounge. Marcus grinned, and handed over a plate piled high with things that could only vaguely be considered food. 

There was, he allowed a while later (after being shushed by both Joan and Marcus on multiple occasions, but not before espousing some of his theories on the fundamental issues with this game, and the obvious flaws in the Giants’ plays) a strange conviviality to the entire proceeding. The food was abysmal as he had imagined, and he had managed to ingest as little of it as possible, and the game was frustrating and pointless. But Joan and Marcus’ enthusiasm was somehow both infectious and endearing. They were enjoying themselves, and as much as Sherlock would hate to admit, he was as well. 

It was, he thought, lucky that neither Joan or Marcus finished with any sort of ‘that wasn’t so bad’ statement after the game was over. They were dispirited that their team lost, and Sherlock thought it best to not point out the superior playing of the Jets. Discretion was not the soul of valour in his mind, but there were moments even Sherlock knew it best to stay quiet, rather than be right.

“Hey, Sherlock.” Marcus stopped him as he was heading upstairs. The night was still young, and the game had made Sherlock think of an old case he had read about. A series of disappearances a decade earlier, all tied somehow to sporting events. He looked back to the other man, his mind still sorting through the fractured details as he remembered them. “Thanks. For letting me stay and for tonight. I know it’s not how you usually spend a Monday night.”

“Think nothing of it,” Sherlock said, surprised by how much he meant his own words. “It was educational, and interesting.”

Marcus raised a brow at that, but didn’t comment. “Well, thanks anyway. Got the all clear to go home tomorrow so I’ll be out of your hair in the morning. But I appreciate it. Not a lot of people would have did what you did. Open your house up to a coworker, let them have the run of the place.”

“Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?” The question is only partially rhetorical. There are times that Sherlock felt he didn’t entirely understand that dynamic as well as he should. Joan was often the one to point it out to him, and he had been making an effort to be more conscientious. 

“Maybe. Still, thanks.”

Sherlock nodded, wondering what else he should say. His mind hearkened back to something Joan had said to him once, something about people simply wanting to be acknowledged. He thought this was the appropriate place to try it. “You’re welcome.”

Marcus looked satisfied, turning and heading back to the lounge. Some sort of post-game analysis could be heard coming from the telly, something Sherlock found frustrating in its obtuseness. His mind went back to the case, away from the evening, from Marcus and Joan and their rather silly reverence of sport until the case was all that he had thoughts for.


End file.
